


Wash, Rinse, Repeat

by thewintertrash



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dissociation, Endgame James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Alteration, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewintertrash/pseuds/thewintertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, he would describe it like a puzzle: he'd gotten a box of puzzle pieces, some of them fit together, most did not. Some of them we covered in blood. Some of it was his, most was not. All he knew for certain was that he was missing more than he had. Some of them came back, most did not.</p><p>But it took him a long, long time to be able to get to 'later'. It took a long time for those pieces to be lost, and even longer for them to be put together again into something recognizable of 'before.'</p><p>The Captain was sure he was Bucky. He wasn't sure of anything, anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as a short priest!Bucky AU that turned into something canon compliant and now I've hit 47k+ and i'm not done. it's probably going to be around ~75k. I don't know how it happened.
> 
> Some things to keep in mind:
> 
> -Bucky never knows anything that's going on  
> -The greater than/less than signs in speech means they're speaking a language other than English  
> -Things are gonna get worse before they get better

Coming back from the war was rough. In some ways, it was worse than being in the actual war. Sure, the threat of death wasn’t eminent anymore (or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself) and regular showers were great (he hated all the dirt and blood that never seemed to come out) but there was something about coming home, because the war never truly seemed to end. The days were long and endless in their monotony, which he realized was a different, constant torture. At least in the war there was an end in sight, and whether it was the shrapnel or the disease brewing in the trenches that got him first, well. It was an End.

The impossible happened, though. He made it home. No, that was a lie; he made it out of the trenches. He hadn’t been back to the States since before he was drafted. You see, there were certain… complications, with his return, and it best suited him to stay in Germany. He belonged to a small church in an equally small town just outside of Berlin, specifically.

Living here was rough. Everything was rough. The Germans were angry and tensions were boiling over, especially with Hitler’s rise to power. The Third Reich was cracking down and rumors and nightmares spread around with the treatment of the Jews. Nobody wanted nothing to do with no one and it seemed the people were split in three ways: those who supported the Third Reich, those too scared to do anything about it, and those who were persecuted by the first group. There was no sanctuary it seemed, except for in the Church where Bucky lived. The other clergymen tried to keep the lid shut on what was happening outside their doors, but even they couldn’t hide everything. Hell, all he had to do was go into town and it would tell him everything he needed to know.

That was where he was now, since he offered to go drop off some of the donations. As much as he was grateful for the Church and all they had done for him, it was stifling to be locked up behind those doors all the time. He had to beg off to leave, doing anything he could to get out beyond the walls. They would warn him about the war outside, but fuck that. Bucky had seen war. He’d lived through it. He could handle the deserted streets and the sullen, heavy air that seeped through the bricks.

This was one of those things worse than war, the precipice of being almost to war. He felt the same air back before Uncle Sam declared the End on the world, and now it was happening again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d lived through those horrors, those nightmares that left him terrified and on edge for days, and now the fat cats wanted to do all that again? Well, count him out. He’d served his time, and lost parts of himself for it.

He was just coming out of an official’s house, tugging his collar against the warmth of the evening, when a shout drew his attention. Most people just ducked their heads and walked faster when stuff like this happened, especially after dark, but Bucky couldn’t help himself. You know, that saying about curiosity and the cat and all. Especially if the yelling he heard happened to in an American accent, Bucky’s own native tongue. How was he supposed to resist?

He found the source of the voices down an alley. One was definitely American, though the other was German. The German was wailing on this little blond kid, which Bucky couldn’t stand back in such an unfair fight. Well, the kid was putting up a good effort and kept getting up after each hit. Didn’t he know the guy would leave him alone if he just stayed down?

“< Hey, back off, >” he called out in German as he turned the guy forcefully around by the shoulder.

The guy turned to him and sneered. “< What, you want to take the place of your pathetic friend? Fine! >” he said before throwing a punch, which Bucky easily dodged and threw a punch of his own back that landed solidly on his jaw.

Bucky pushed him down the alley. “< Why don’t you go pick on someone your own size? >” he asked. The man finally got the idea that he was hopelessly outmatched, but not before Bucky kicked him in the ass for good measure. He heard shuffling behind him, and the blond kid was already picking himself up.

“< You didn’t have to do that, >” the guy said, the German a little awkward in his mouth. Bucky grinned and switched to English.

“Sure I didn’t. I could have let him keep beating the snot out of you.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You’re American!”

“Born and bred.”

He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Steve Rogers, from Brooklyn.”

“James Barnes, also from Brooklyn, but you can call me Bucky.”

“You’re from Brooklyn too? Nice to meet you, Bucky. But seriously, you didn’t have to step in like that. I had him on the ropes.”

“Sure, kid.” He looked Steve up and down, noticing the scraped knees, split lip, and bruising eye. He smiled and put his arm around Steve’s shoulder, leading them out of the alley. “How about we patch you up and go get a drink? That is, if you’re even old enough.”

“Aw, shut your mouth,” Steve said, pushing Bucky way, though he was smiling. “I’m twenty, alright?”

Bucky laughed. “I might have to see some sort of ID to believe that one, ya punk.” Steve shoved him again and called him a jerk, which just made him laugh harder.

They did end up at a bar, because what better way to soothe a headache than putting a cold beer bottle again your head? Bucky went in and ordered for them, refusing to take any of Steve’s money, which it turned out, Steve could be a stubborn piece of shit when he wanted to be. The only way Bucky could get him to shut up was promise to let him buy the second round. Jesus, it was like folks couldn’t be nice for nothing anymore.

“So what’s a New Yorker like yourself doing all the way out here?’ Bucky asked him after getting the alcohol and returning to the corner table they had procured.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Bucky shrugged. It was a fair question. “I dunno. I guess, after the war it just wasn’t really the same for me, ya know? Plus I got a debt to repay.”

“Must be a pretty big debt to keep you all the way out here.”

Steve flinched as Bucky poured some of the alcohol over his knees. He flexed his left hand, which was covered with a black glove. “You have no idea,” he said.

“My father died in the Great War. Mustard gas,” Steve said and Bucky winced in sympathy. Steve placed his cold beer bottle against his temple. “My mother was a nurse. Got hit with TB, couldn’t shake it. I was all by myself, so I came out to live with some relatives for a short while. Well,” he sighed and gave a small, deprecating smile. “It was supposed to be a short while. It’s… just taking me longer than I expected to save up for the trip back.”

“So, here we are. A coupl’a kids from Brooklyn a long way from home.” He took a long swig from his drink. “Wanna trade stories?”

They drank more and talked more, and Bucky found himself really, really liking Steve. Sure, he was a short, skinny kid who was as stubborn as a mule, but he appreciated the way he thought. It was a dangerous kind of thinking, stuff that didn’t exactly follow the way of the Third Reich, but they were crouched together in a crowded, smoky bar and nobody was paying much attention to the two Americans whispering to each other in the corner.

Eventually they had to leave, the smoke upsetting Steve’s asthma, which of course he couldn’t _just_ be short and skinny, but apparently had poor health too. He apologized profusely to Bucky for making them leave, but Bucky just shrugged it off. He didn’t too much mind.

He ran a hand through his hair, still short from the war. It was a nice night out, if a little muggy, just on the cusp of fall. He also might be a little tipsy. “How about we do this again? Wouldn’t mind having a few more drinks with you, Steve Rogers from Brooklyn.”

Steve looked at him for a moment, his cheeks rosy. He was definitely urging on drunk. “Sure, Bucky Barnes, also from Brooklyn. It’s nice to talk to someone in English again.”

“As long as I don’t have to save your ass again.”

“You didn’t have to step in, in the first place!”

Bucky laughed. It was too easy to rile him up. He stuck out his hand. “The day after tomorrow, then?”

Steve shook it. For his failing body, he had a nice grip. And a nice smile. Bucky might definitely be a little drunk.

“The day after tomorrow,” he promised.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the second chapter. About two thirds or so of this is already written, so this is gonna be quite a trip.
> 
> Just know remember that a) Bucky is an unreliable narrator b) he is confused c) the repetition is absolutely intentional and important.
> 
> Also unbeta'd for the most part.

Coming back from the war was rough. In some ways, it was worse than being in the actual war. Sure, the threat of death wasn’t eminent anymore (or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself) and regular showers were great (he hated all the dirt and blood that never seemed to come out) but there was something about coming home, because the war never truly seemed to end. The days were long and endless in their monotony, which he realized was a different, constant torture. At least in the war there was an end in sight, and whether it was the shrapnel or the disease brewing in the trenches that got him first, well. It was an End.

The impossible happened, though. He made it home. No, that was a lie; he made it out of the trenches. Most of him had, anyway. He hadn’t been back to the States since before he was drafted. You see, there were certain… complications, with his return, so the Church decided it best suited him to stay in Germany and that he shouldn’t go back. The Church was just a small congregation in an equally small town just outside of Berlin, specifically.

Living here was rough. Everything was rough. The Germans were angry and tensions were boiling over, especially with Hitler’s rise to power. The Third Reich was cracking down and rumors and nightmares spread around with the treatment of the Jews. Nobody wanted nothing to do with no one and it seemed the people were split in three ways: those who supported the Third Reich, those too scared to do anything about it, and those who were persecuted by the first group. There was no sanctuary it seemed, except for in the Church where Bucky lived. The other clergymen kept a tight lid on what was happening outside their doors, but even they couldn’t hide everything. Hell, all he had to do was go into town and it would tell him everything he needed to know.

That was where he was now, since he offered to go drop off some of the donations. As much as he was grateful for the Church and all they had done for him, it was stifling to be locked up behind those doors all the time. He had to beg off to leave, doing anything he could to get out beyond the walls. They warned him about the war outside and forbid him to speak to anyone, but fuck that. Bucky had seen war. He’d lived through it. He could handle the deserted streets and the sullen, heavy air that seeped through the bricks.

This was one of those things worse than war, the precipice of being almost to war. He felt the same air back before Uncle Sam declared the End on the world, and now it was happening again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d lived through those horrors, those nightmares that left him terrified and on edge for days, and now the fat cats wanted to do all that again? Well, count him out. He’d served his time, and lost parts of himself for it.

He was just coming out of an official’s house, wrapping his scarf and jacket tighter around himself against the cold, when a shout drew his attention. Most people just ducked their heads and walked faster when stuff like this happened, especially after dark, but Bucky couldn’t help himself, even if they had forbid him from interacting with anyone. You know, that saying about curiosity and the cat and all. Especially if the yelling he heard happened to be in an American accent, Bucky’s own native tongue. How was he supposed to resist? And, who would know, in the end?

He found the source of the voices down an alley. One was definitely American, though the other was German. The German was wailing on this little blond kid, which Bucky couldn’t stand back in such an unfair fight. Well, the kid was putting up a good effort and kept getting up after each hit. Didn’t he know the guy would leave him alone if he just stayed down?

But he wouldn’t stay down. Bucky wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did. Plus, that guy seemed really familiar.

“< Hey, back off, >” he called out in German as he turned the guy forcefully around by the shoulder.

The guy turned to him and sneered. “< Aw, fuck you too, pretty boy! >” he said before throwing a punch, which Bucky easily dodged and threw a punch of his own back that landed solidly on his jaw.

Bucky pushed him down the alley. “< Why don’t you go pick on someone your own size? >” he asked. The man finally got the idea that he was hopelessly outmatched, but not before Bucky kicked him in the ass for good measure. He heard shuffling behind him, and the blond kid was already picking himself up.

“I had him on the ropes,” he said in English, clapping the dirt of his hands and shooting Bucky a glare. Bucky brushed his hair back out of his eyes, taken back by the unwelcoming attitude of the guy.

“Sure, punk.” He looked him up and down, noticing the scraped knees, split lip, and bruising eye. Had they met before? He smiled and put his arm around the kid’s shoulder, leading them out of the alley. “How about we patch you up and go get a drink? That is, if you’re even old enough.”

The kid pushed him off. “What the fuck?”

Bucky reared back. “What, can’t somebody be nice and invite a guy out for a drink? Jesus, I could have just let him kick the snot out of you.”

He stared incredulously at Bucky.

“What, and I’m just s’pposed to forget how you’ve disappeared the last coupl’a weeks?”

“Disappeared — what’re you talking about?”

“I haven’t seen you in over three weeks! What happened to you?”

“I… the hell you going on about? Look, buddy, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, seeing as we’ve never even met before.”

“Never even… is this supposed to be some kind of joke? ’Cause Bucky, this is terrible, even for you.”

“I ain’t jokin’, and I don’t know how you know my name, seeing as we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet.”

He and the kid stared at each other, both very confused and alarmed, although for very different reasons. Bucky had no idea what he was going on about, talking like they knew each other. Maybe he’d just heard his name around, and was trying to joke with him. Except no, he was right, this was a terrible joke, since neither of them seemed to be in on it.

“Okay… how about this,” the kid said slowly. “How about we go and get a drink, and try to sort this out?”

He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone, let alone go get a drink with someone. But hadn’t he already offered? Shit, that was real stupid of him; this was going to get him into a heap of trouble. The Church finding out about this was a very, very bad idea, but he… he could’a _sworn_ he knew this kid from somewhere.

“Alright, yeah, I could use a drink,” he agreed, despite the niggling fear of getting caught. “I mean, I guess you look kinda familiar. But maybe you just have one of those faces."

He’d meant it as a joke, but the kid just grimaced. Well, this was awkward.

The air was so tense he could almost cut it with a knife as they walked to the nearby bar and Bucky hated it. He still didn’t even know the fella’s name, which was rude, especially since he knew his. He also didn’t know how to ask, since for some reason he felt guilty for having to, like he should know it or something. But that was impossible, seeing as they didn’t actually know each other.

They came up to a bar down the road, but Bucky grabbed the kid’s shoulder before he could go in.

“What?”

“Not this one.”

“Why?” he glanced back and forth between Bucky and the bar. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

Bucky flinched away when he realized he had grabbed the kid’s shoulder with his left hand. “Nothing, nothing, I… I just don’t like this bar, is all. Let’s try a different one.”

The guy’s gaze lingered too long on Bucky’s left arm for his liking.

“Okay… we can go to a different bar.”

The second bar was fine. He didn’t know what it was about that first place that made him panic like that, it’s not like he’d ever had trouble in there before. They sat down in a table in the back, where they could have easy access to the back door and see the whole room. You know, just in case anything happened. It still didn’t stop Bucky from twitching every time someone came through the door, but it was better than nothing.

The guy insisted he got the first round. It wasn’t worth the argument, since he was so stubborn. Was he stubborn? Did Bucky really know that? He worried about the people smoking around them, too. That would upset the kid’s asthma… which he had no idea if he actually had asthma or not. Well, he was short and skinny, so him also having poor health was just a natural assumption on Bucky’s part. Right?

He downed half first drink in one go. He kind of felt like he was losing his mind.

“So, Bucky,” the guy started. His eyes were really blue and he definitely needed more alcohol if he was going to be thinking like that. “Do you… do you really have no idea who I am?"

“You look familiar,” he admitted. “I mean, obviously we’ve met before, right? Or else you wouldn’t know my name.”

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you grew up in Brooklyn, and you were a Sergeant in the 107th infantry for the US Army.”

His eyebrows rose. “Ah,” he said.

He paused, and then downed the rest of his drink in one go.

“We met back in August. You took over the fight I was having like you did tonight, then we got drinks in the first bar we went to that you didn’t like. Is… is any of this ringing any bells?”

Bucky thought back hard. It sure sounded like him. But he couldn’t actually remember doing it. There was _something_ , though, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

“Do you have asthma?” he blurted out instead.

“I — yeah, I do. Why?”

He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he realized he didn’t really have an answer. “Uh, it’s smoky in here? That’s… you’d have a problem with the smoke, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, scrutinizing Bucky. “When we met, we had to leave the bar because my asthma got too bad.”

Bucky frowned. “That was back in August?”

“Yes.”

“That was a couple of months ago… I mean, it’s kinda weird that I don’t remember, but it happens, ya know?”

“We hung out a lot after that.”

“Uh.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“Oh.”

His words stung more than they should have. He didn’t know what to say, so he got up to get the next round, even if the guy had barely touched his drink so far. As he waited on the drinks, he thought, the guy could be lying. So he knew his name and rank, that’s not too personal. Right? He sat back down and clanked the glasses on the table.

“Prove it. Look, if we really did become pals, wouldn’t I remember that? How could I forget months of being friends with someone?”

The guy leaned in and Bucky unconsciously mirrored him. “I know about your left arm.”

He felt himself pale. “What about it?” he deflected, taking another swig of his drink. “It’s just an arm.”

“Most arms aren’t made of metal.”

Bucky choked and glanced around to see if anyone heard. “You got thirty seconds to explain how you know that.”

“You told me about it. It was sometime in late October. We were hanging out in my room, and I kept asking why you wore gloves all the time. You made me swore that I would never tell anyone, and then showed me your hand. You told me that was why you stayed in Germany, because you owed the Church a debt. That arm is your debt.”

Bucky couldn’t feel his legs. This was bad. This was very, very bad. The Church was going to be very angry with him. The Church didn’t like loose ends like this.

_Kill him._

What the fuck? Where did that voice come from? It didn’t matter, since he instantly squashed the thought. That terrified him more than the thought of the Church being angry with him. He had no clue where that idea even came from — kill a civilian? Seriously, what the fuck? Bucky wasn’t like that. No, this was bad. This was very, very bad.

“Please, don’t panic. I know this weird, okay? But you trust me — trusted me — enough to tell me about it. I swear on my mother’s grave that I will not tell anyone about it. You have my word.”

He drained the rest of his beer and decided he trusted that vow completely, and then considered why he did so. He scrubbed his hand over his face, but was still a little hysterical. “I guess I have no choice. I mean, sure they’ll be mad at me, but they’ll kill you. Why would I tell you? Why would I put you in that danger?”

“I, um, may have insisted that I wasn’t scared and wanted to know anyway.”

Bucky nodded, that made sense. It made no sense why it made sense and decided that the alcohol wasn’t hitting him as hard as he wanted it to. He frowned. Usually chugging two beers would make him at least a little tipsy. He grabbed the second beer he had gotten for the guy, since he wasn’t even halfway done with his first and Bucky was past using his manners. The guy didn’t seem to mind.

“I mean, this is all…” Bucky made a vague gesture with his free hand.

“A little hard to believe? Yeah, I get that.”

Bucky could tell he was putting on a good face, but this was really taking a toll on him and that made Bucky feel extraordinarily guilty. He should fix this, he just didn’t know _how._

“What if we talked some more? That might… I dunno, help jog my memory? It’s still kinda hard to believe that I could forget months of being friends with you, but…”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he agreed and sat up straighter in his chair. “We shared stories about our family, the night we met. I guess we were both a little homesick.”

“Yeah, I haven’t been home in years.” Bucky grimaced. “But, you probably knew that already.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind, really.”

“I jus—”

Bucky glanced at the door as somebody he knew came in. Someone from the Church.

“Bucky, what—?” the guy asked, looking back at the door.

Bucky took his chance and slipped out the back and hit the pavement running. There was no time to look back.

~*~

_Steve Rogers._

The name came to him as easy as breathing, the night after meeting the blond American in the alley.

He didn’t know how he forgot it.

~*~

He found Steve Rogers fairly easily the next night. He snuck out of the Church; they didn’t need to know where he was going. Stealth was also easy, melting into the shadows and moving with silent feet came like second nature to him. This all was necessary, since he would have been spotted otherwise.

Steve Rogers was walking down a street near the alley he was getting beat up in the other day. He lived around here, and whether that was deductive reasoning or some sort of memory, Bucky couldn’t tell.

He yanked Steve Rogers down a deserted, dark alley and clamped his hand around his mouth when he started struggling, though he stopped fighting once he saw who it was.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky grinned and took his hand away.

“ _Bucky_?!” he hissed. “Jesus fuck, what’re you doing, going around giving a guy a heart attack like that?”

“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t very sorry at all. “Steven Grant Rogers.”

Steve stared at him with those starry blue eyes. “You remembered.”

“Uh,” he cleared his throat. “Steve Rogers. You…” he vaguely gestured at Steve, “an artist?”

He smiled. “Yeah, Buck. I am.”

He shoved a sketchbook he’d stolen from the Church at him. “Good, ’cause I was a real asshole the other night. So, sorry about that. And I guess for disappearing on you for those couple weeks. And for forgetting about you in general. Just. You know. Sorry.”

Steve took the sketchbook from Bucky delicately, tracing his fingers on the cover and flipping through the pages. He looked back up at Bucky, grinning from ear to ear and Bucky felt his fucking knees go weak. Damn, like that smile wasn’t a breath of fresh air.

“I forgive you, of course I forgive you, you stupid jerk.” He punched Bucky in the shoulder. “Just don’t do that again.”

He wasn’t sure if Steve was talking about forgetting or the way he yanked him into the alley, but it didn’t matter. He’d do anything to make sure he kept smiling at him like that.

~*~

Bucky snuck out of the Church as often as he dared to go hang out with Steve. He remembered more about Steve, like how he came over to Germany to live with his mother’s sister, uncle, and cousin after the Great Depression hit. (They didn’t know Bucky would come at night to visit Steve in his room. You know, the less people knew the better these days.) Steve was saving up to go back to New York, but that was taking longer than he expected. Well, it was easy to see why, since between the impending war, the shitty German economy which was shittier than anywhere else in the world, and how Steve was struck down with a cold almost once a month made making money and keeping it difficult. Hell, just one of those would make it hard to keep going, but Steve never gave up.

When it came down to it, he couldn’t give up. That was it. Steve couldn’t give up so he kept on going. He made Bucky want to be a better person.

There were more things, especially when Steve started talking about how he thought of the Third Reich politics. Stuff like that would get him thrown in jail or killed, or both. That was probably why Bucky trusted him with the secret of his metal arm, since Steve had little to no self-preservation instincts. Not with a mouth like that, anyway.

Steve got real heated about _Kristallnacht_ too, which happened in the weeks that Bucky was away, and told him about how the Third Reich terrorized the Jews and threw thousands of them into concentration camps, about how Steve felt so goddamn helpless and he hated it, they had to do something, the United States needed to _do_ something. Bucky felt the shivers of numb horror creep down his spine, because Steve was right, of course he was right. This was really war. And here he was, stuck in the middle of it. Again.

(Something told him that he was forgetting something important concerning _Kristallnacht_ that went beyond what Steve told him about it, but he buried that thought. He didn’t want to know.)

It also didn’t take long before Bucky realized that he like Steve way too much to just be friendly, which — this was shit. Bucky thought he knew about torture, but this was different. This was a slow burn where it hurt to be close and hurt worse to be far and there was absolutely nothing about it he could do, since doing stuff like that would definitely get both of them killed or get them thrown into a camp with the Jews. Well, that was if none of the other stuff got them killed first.

Huh. Thinking like that, maybe he should just go for it.

Sometimes he thought that maybe Steve… but then the moment would pass. He watched Steve, though, how he drew, those skinny wrists and big hands and knobby elbows and a smile that could light up a room. They would lie side by side on Steve’s bed, since he got cold too easily and the window was too drafty. Both of those things were absolutely true — Steve thought it was hilarious to put his freezing hands on Bucky when he wasn’t paying attention — but Bucky was also just using those as an excuse to be painfully close (but not _too_ close) to Steve. There they would whisper to each other and stifle their laughter to make sure they didn’t wake up Steve’s extended family.

Steve would nod off before Bucky would, no matter how hard he tried to stay up. Bucky would brush the hair out of his face and think that if this was torture, it was the sweetest torture he’d ever known.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't know, Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass happened in Nazi Germany and Austria on the 8th and 9th of November, 1938. Basically it was a ton of coordinated attacks on the Jews, where around 30k people were arrested, possibly hundreds died, and around 7k businesses and homes were destroyed.
> 
> As for the timeline, well. You'll see.
> 
> i'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the third chapter. Things start to happen. And I do what I want with comic/movie canon come and fight me about it.
> 
> Also the longest chapter so far. Not the longest chapter in this story, but ya know.

Coming back from the war was rough. In some ways, it was worse than being in the actual war. There was something about coming home, because the war never truly seemed to end, especially now, when the world was gearing up for battle again. The days were long and endless in their monotony, which he realized was a different, constant torture. At least in the war there was an end in sight, and whether it was the shrapnel or the disease brewing in the trenches that got him first, well. It was an End.

The impossible happened, though. He made it out of the trenches. Most of him had, anyway. He couldn’t go back to the States, because he served the Church. The Church decided it best suited him to stay in Germany, so he stayed. He was loyal to the Church.

Living here was rough. Everything was rough. Everyone was pissed off and seemed to be itching for a fight. Nobody wanted nothing to do with no one and it seemed the people were split in three ways: those who supported the Third Reich, those too scared to do anything about it, and those who were persecuted by the first group. He wasn’t supposed to care about any of those people, only concerned with how he could best help the Church.

(He wondered why the Church wasn’t helping those in the town. They helped him. He wanted to help. That was why he signed up for the war in the first place, right?)

Sometimes he would sneak down to the town, since he hated being cooped up behind those grey stone walls. Not that they rest of the town was much better, since the last dregs of winter hadn’t yet melted away even though it was spring. Whatever, everything was fucking terrible, what was new?

This was one of those things worse than war, the precipice of being almost to war. He felt the same air back before Uncle Sam declared the End on the world, except it wasn’t the fucking End and everything was starting up again. He should have known the world hadn’t been satisfied for its lust for blood.

He tugged his cap down and walked around the quiet streets. They weren’t empty, but nobody was particularly cheerful these days, anyway.

“Bucky?”

He hesitated, but kept moving. There was no way the person was referring to him, but he had a feeling they meant to. If he didn’t answer, they’d figure out they got the wrong person and forget about it.

“Bucky!” the same voice said, now attached to a person who grabbed onto his right arm. It was a short, skinny, blond American guy, who shouldn’t be out running around.

He pulled his arm out of the guy’s hold and frowned. “My name is James.”

The guy’s face fell, but he quickly recovered. He took a deep breath before putting out his hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“James Barnes,” he said automatically, shaking his hand. He had a strong grip for someone so skinny and sickly. He had the vague sense that he had done this before, but he must have introduced himself to people. It was strange that there was another American all the way out here, but that wasn’t any of his business.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Rogers asked. “Um, it’s just — you know, been a while since I’ve talked to someone who also spoke English, let alone another American.”

Rogers was lying, though he knew he was a terrible liar in general. He was just too honest.

That was strange. He didn’t know Rogers was honest. No one was honest anymore. That was another thing he hated about war.

He still wanted to get a drink with him, though.

“Sorry pal,” he said instead. He couldn’t get a drink with him, because he wasn’t supposed to be out here at all, let alone make friends. He didn’t have friends, only the Church. “But I gotta split.”

Rogers looked down at his shoes, jaw clenched. It was James’ fault he looked so dejected and he hated it. He should be fixing this. Fixing what, he didn’t know, which he probably wouldn’t know how to fix even if he did. But Rogers had a really nice smile (how did James know that?) and he felt so terribly _guilty_ for making him look like that.

“Okay,” he said. “But — if you change your mind, I live on the third street down that way, fifth house on the left.”

They parted ways, and he decided to avoid Rogers at all costs. He was nothing but trouble, and wouldn’t help James or the Church.

~*~

Rogers had called him Bucky.

 _Steve Rogers._ He liked that name. It was a good, strong name. He liked ‘Bucky’ too. He liked that Steve had called him that 

He knew Steve. He did. He just couldn’t remember from _where_.

…

Fuck it.

~*~

He hid in the shadows behind the neighbor’s house next to Steve’s with a very strong sense he had done this before. He was waiting for something, but he couldn’t remember what. But he waited, because that was what he was supposed to do.

There — in the second story window on the left, he saw the curtains rustle. Stuck in the corner of the frame, which he hadn’t paid much attention to before, was a red card. A hand appeared and exchanged the red card for a blue one. That was the signal that James had been waiting for, though he hadn’t known it before.

He crept through the dark and climbed up the vines growing on the side of the house. Somehow he knew just where to put his hands and feet to make the least amount of sound. That was weird. He shouldn’t know that.

He knocked softly on the window, where Rogers’ head appeared a moment later. He blinked at James in shock, before scrambling to get the window open.

“Buck— er, James?!” he hissed, standing back to let him in.

He frowned once he was in Rogers’ room. It was small, and even with the bare essentials it was a little suffocating. There was a skinny bed shoved against one wall furthest from the window, the door on the wall to the right. There was a dresser and a desk against the last two walls. He took stock of potential exits and weapons and realized he didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He tucked his hair behind his ear. Rogers had almost called him Bucky again. He liked that. He wasn’t supposed to and it gave him a thrill.

“I knew you,” he said, turning to Rogers. He furrowed his brow. “I don’t know how, but I knew you.”

“Yeah,” Rogers choked out. He cleared his throat. “You know me. You’re my friend.”

“You called me Bucky.”

“Yes, well, I used to…”

“You can keep doing that.”

Rogers grinned and James — Bucky? And should he call him Steve? — definitely liked that a lot. “Alright, Bucky. Do you wanna sit down?”

He sat down on the bed and Steve joined him. Bucky frowned, lost in thought.

(Yeah. Steve and Bucky were definitely better than Rogers and James.)

“Your hair’s getting long,” Steve said, reaching up and brushing it behind his ear.

“Is it?” It was getting down so it hung almost below his ears. It was kind of annoying.

“Yeah. When we first met, it was pretty short.”

There was something so achingly familiar about Steve that it hurt to look at him, especially when he gazed so softly back. No fella’s eyelashes should be as long as a dame’s and no eyes should be that pretty shade of blue, either.

“I can’t stay,” he murmured.

“I know.” Steve sighed. “I’m just… I really missed you, Bucky.”

“How long was I gone?" 

“A while.”

“Sorry.”

“I know.”

Steve was honest, and Bucky could tell when he was lying, so he trusted Steve to tell him the truth, even if he didn’t know he’d been gone — or even where he had gone _to_. Where the trust came from, he had no idea, but it came as natural to him as hiding in the shadows, so he didn’t question it. It was quiet, then, though eventually he noticed the Steve’s arm turn to gooseflesh. He prompted Steve to get under the covers and lie down, and Bucky lay down beside him so they faced each other.

“We did this?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “It gets real cold in here during the winter, and you’re like a fuckin’ furnace.”

They gazed at each other for a little while, the rest of the world and the threat of war far away in the distance. Eventually Steve’s eyes started to droop, and he knew he should leave. He didn’t want to, though.

“I don’t remember you, but I know you.”

“It’s okay, Bucky.”

“I didn’t want to forget you. I know that. I like this.”

“I know. I’ll help you remember. I like this too.”

“I can’t stay.”

“But you’ll come back?”

“Yeah. ’Course I will.”

Steve smiled. “Good.”

~*~

The next morning, as he lie somewhere between asleep and awake, he remembered that he loved Steve.

Later he would try to smoke his worry and panic away, because fellas weren’t supposed to love each other like they would a dame, and how he was going to get Steve killed or thrown into a fucking camp because he couldn’t control himself.

But for now, he felt warm, and safe, and happy. He drifted back to sleep, even though he was supposed to get up at dawn.

~*~

It was (always) overwhelming, at first, Bucky remembering everything. It left him with some pretty powerful headaches too. Steve would make him lie down and put his head in his lap when they happened, so Steve could brush his fingers through his hair and massage his scalp, no matter how much Bucky complained about Steve’s boney legs.

(Bucky actually loved it and only put up a front about it. Steve had him all figured out and kept up anyway because he knew.)

Steve said that this was the third time this had happened. Bucky felt like the shittiest friend in the world for it, but Steve never let him apologize. Told him that if he couldn’t apologize for his asthma or getting sick, Bucky couldn’t apologize for the memory loss. Said they couldn’t help what they couldn’t control.

Still didn’t stop him from feeling like a guilty schmuck, but he guessed Steve had a point. At least Steve had a reason for getting sick or whatever, Bucky had no idea what happened to him in the weeks that Steve said he missed. He got his worst headaches whenever he tried to recall, and, for some strange reason, the taste of rubber in his mouth. Steve didn’t want to force him to remember something if it meant hurting himself for it. Bucky was secretly grateful for this, since he also got the feeling that he didn’t want to know about whatever it was in the first place.

They fell back into a routine, with Bucky sneaking over to Steve’s house whenever he could. The card in the window was so he would know when Steve’s relatives went to bed. It was comfortable in there, just the two of them, and it was obvious why Bucky felt about Steve the way he did.

Because, oh yeah, and he was head over heels in love with Steve. That had never stopped, since it wasn’t like he forgot, more like he’d just… misplaced the thought. Once he realized it was like ‘oh, duh, how could I have forgotten that I’m a ticking time bomb waiting to kill Steve with how I feel about him, ’cause being a queer is fuckin’ illegal, how stupid of me.’

Bucky had never really considered the thought of being with another man before — or, he was pretty sure, anyway — which struck him as strange. He still preferred women and was pretty sure he had had liked a couple of dolls back in the States. (Hadn’t he?)

Maybe it was just Steve. That piece of shit.

~*~

“I want to go back to Brooklyn,” Steve said to him wistfully one night. “I want to go _home_. Sometimes it just feels like I’m never going to get there.”

They sat side by side on the bed, Bucky reading and Steve sketching. Bucky turned to him in surprise. Steve always seemed so upbeat, so infallible, it was sometimes easy to overlook that he was human and had doubts too.

“You’ll get there, Steve. You’ve already saved up a bunch of money, it’ll be okay.”

 “I guess so.”

“Hey,” Bucky said, putting his book down and turning fully towards Steve. “We’ll both get home.”

“Yeah?” Steve looked at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “We both will?”

“What, you think you’re getting rid of me that easily? You’re stuck with me, pal, ’cause I’m with you ’til the end of the line.”

Steve swallowed, gazing at Bucky through those ridiculous eyelashes, eyes dropping down to his lips. Bucky felt his heart speed up. _Maybe, maybe,_ it pounded _._ He didn’t move as Steve brought a hand to his face, brushing some of the hair out of the way.

He nodded once. “’Til the end of the line,” he declared, and kissed Bucky.

Don’t let anyone say Steve wasn’t a brave little shit, much braver than Bucky and anyone else he knew. God, kissing Steve was the best thing that ever happened to him, it came just as familiar as everything else—

Bucky froze. What if this wasn’t their first kiss? He cast around in his mind, because he thought he was getting better, he thought he remembered most it, but what if he wasn’t? What if he couldn’t remember their first kiss? How was he supposed to live with that? He thought harder and could feel the familiar ache in his head start back up, but all he could remember was thinking about kissing Steve and imagining various situations where a fella might kiss another fella. Did he just imagine it? Or was it real? He didn’t fucking need anything else to feel like a piece of fucking shit, okay. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t remember. Steve would forgive him for it and say it was all right because he was a better man, but how could that possibly be all right?

He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. Time to face the music, he supposed.

Bucky blinked, but Steve was no longer sitting on the bed with him, instead standing across the room by his desk.

“Sorry,” Bucky said. God, he felt downright terrible.

“No — I’m the one who should apologize.”

“What? No, I’m sorry,” Bucky grimaced and looked down. “I can’t remember—”

“I shouldn’t’a kissed you. I’m real sorry Bucky. I shouldn’t’ve betrayed your trust like that.”

“Betrayed? What are you going on about?” he asked, and then continued belatedly, “And why are you all the way over there?”

“’Cause I’m a big ol’ queer who kissed his best friend when he shouldn’t’ve,” he said baldly. “And I’m sorry.”

Wait; did Steve think that he hadn’t wanted to kiss him? He almost laughed.

“Well, come back over here and we can be big ol’ queers together.”

“What?” he asked, his eyebrows pinching together.

Bucky held out his hand. He could see the gears turning in Steve’s head, before he stepped over to Bucky and grabbed his outreached hand.

“Together, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s just—” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asked softly, stepping up between Bucky’s thighs and cradling his jaw with his hands.

“I can’t remember if we’ve kissed before,” he admitted miserably, looking up at Steve.

A pause. “Is that what you panicked on out about?” He started grinning, the fucker.

“Well, it’s important! I think I just… thought about kissing you a bunch, so it got all…” He made a vague gesture towards his head, “…muddled — would you quit laughing at me?”

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Don’t worry, though, that was our first kiss.”

He leaned down and kissed the frown off Bucky’s lips, deep and slow. “And that was our second.”

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open as he tried to restart his brain, because _wow_. Steve Rogers just _kissed_ him. Twice! “No kidding?” he breathed.

“No kidding,” he said, and kissed him again.

Bucky scooted back onto the bed and Steve followed him, straddling his thighs and gripping his shoulders. Bucky braced himself on his left hand and reverently touched Steve’s waist with his right, running his hand up his spine. And to think they hadn’t done this before. Why did it take them so fucking long? He was never going to stop kissing Steve, because this was great. This was fucking _fantastic._

Eventually he pulled back a little and started laughing, he just couldn’t help it.

“What?” Steve asked, grinning.

“Nothin’,” he said and tried to kiss Steve again, but he was smiling too much. Now they were both laughing at whatever this was, which, fuck. He didn’t know. He was just _happy_. And maybe Steve was also thinking they should have been doing this a long time ago. Bucky took a chance and ground his hips up, making Steve’s laughter choke off sharply in surprise.

His hand found his way up Steve’s shirt as he mouthed down Steve’s jaw and neck, who tilted his head back to give Bucky better access.

“Fucking Christ, why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“Blah blah war, blah blah it’s illegal, blah blah we’re all gonna die fuckin’ anyway so what’s the point?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve said distractedly, rutting his hips down in small circles on Bucky’s lap.

He nudged Steve back a little, so he could take his shirt off properly. Bucky leaned back so he could drink in the sight of him unabashedly, smoothing his hand up along his freckled chest and back again.

“You likin’ the view?” Steve asked, his ears turning pink.

“Mm, it’s a _wonderful_ view.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” 

“I mean it. You’re somethin’ worth going to war for.”

“Shuddup,” he said, blush spreading to his cheeks. “C’mon, it’s your turn,” he said, snaking his hands up Bucky’s shirt.

“Uh— maybe—” Bucky flinched away and froze, hand clamping down on his shirt, his face losing all mirth. He ducked his head and considered crawling in a hole to die, which sounded better than having Steve see his torn up shoulder. Way to go and kill the mood and his erection, he thought.

“Buck, c’mon, I know about your arm. It’s fine.”

He didn’t move. Steve kissed his forehead before resting his head against it and grabbing his hand. Not to move it, but just to hold. It kind of made Bucky want to cry and he hated it. Steve deserved the fucking world and what does he get? A piece of shit friend whose body was a fucking mess and whose brain couldn’t go more than a few months without forgetting all about him.

“Bucky, nothing’s gonna make me leave, alright? We’re stuck with each other now, you said so yourself. ’Til the end of the line.”

“It’s ugly,” Bucky murmured. “You really don’t wanna see it.”

“I’m not gonna push you,” Steve said, leaning down so he could kiss Bucky again, “but you got nothin’ to worry about, alright?”

There were a lot of things that Bucky wanted to say, bubbling emotions that he swallowed back down instead. He took off his shirt, but kept it wrapped around his left shoulder. The metal met his flesh just on the shoulder, so as long as he kept that part covered, he was fine. Steve didn’t begrudge him anything, didn’t give him any pitiful or condescending looks, just went right back to kissing him. He pulled Steve closer, breathing him in like this was a sacrilegious act, which for someone who supposedly belonged to the Church he could fucking care less about offending God. Losing himself was easy when he concentrated on the puff of breathes against his cheek and the hands on his chest, sliding up to his neck and then to his hair.

Bucky broke off the kiss with a small gasp when he felt Steve tug at his hair that travelled right back down to his dick.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled and let go.

“No, do that again,” Bucky said breathlessly.

Steve, though a little dubious, threaded his fingers through Bucky’s hair again and _tugged_.

Bucky’s hips jerked up and he bit his lip to keep himself from making a sound. Steve looked a little awed, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and pulled again, hard enough that he forced his head back and exposed his throat. Bucky swallowed and right after Steve was mouthing at his neck.

“This ain’t gonna last long,” Bucky warned when he felt Steve’s other hand fumbling at his belt.

“What, like I’m gonna last either? Jesus Christ, Buck,” Steve breathed and grounded his hips down to make his point. Bucky decided to help a guy out and undid Steve’s button and zipper one handed and pulled him out. Steve’s skin flushed more and his breathing hitched. He pulled at Bucky’s hair again as he stroked his prick and Bucky groaned softly, that shouldn’t feel so goddamn _good._ Steve buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder to muffle the noises he was making.

Steve tugged once more and Bucky was coming, legs bending under Steve and toes curling. Steve followed after a few more strokes, all tension leaking out of him as he settled heavily onto Bucky, who nestled his face next to Steve’s.

Bucky was pretty sure he died and went to heaven. He felt fucking _fantastic_. And when Steve pulled back to kiss him hard, he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

“I’ve got, um, I’ve got a towel, hold on,” he said, pushing back and stumbling a little. Both knees popped when he stretched them out and he glared at Bucky when he started laughing.

“You’re like an old man,” he teased and Steve threw a towel at him for it.

“It’s hard being on your knees like that…”

Bucky opened his mouth, absolutely gleeful at Steve’s mishap.

“ _Don’t you say anything_!” 

Bucky laughed even harder. “What, you don’t like being on your knees?”

“You shut your mouth, Barnes!”

“Why don’t you come over here and make me?”

And, well, Steve Rogers wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

~*~

Steve might not push him, but he couldn’t say no forever, not when he knew that Steve wanted to see his left arm and all of it crippled, disgusting glory. Sure, Steve would regret it, but. At least he was kind enough not to scream or run away on him.

Before, Bucky had only shown him the metal arm up to his wrist, because while it seemed something straight out of science fiction to have a crude metal hand, it was less horrifying than seeing where it attached into his skin. There was terrible scarring and the skin was discolored and hard, and it was just so fucking _unnatural_ to see steel embedded in the skin like that. Bucky still had a hard time looking at it and he lived with the damn thing.

He tried to explain this to Steve, who didn’t back down. Kept saying that it wouldn’t scare him, that it was nothing to be shameful of. Bucky finally relented one night and turned his back to Steve, because watching his reaction was more than Bucky could bare, and tugged off his shirt.

After a few tense moments, Steve asked softly, “May I?”

Bucky shrugged. Gentle fingers traced the scars up and down his shoulder blade and he had to force himself to stop twitching.

“Does it hurt?” 

“It aches, sometimes,” Bucky said vaguely

“Thank you for showing me.”

Bucky put his shirt back on.

~*~ 

“Hey Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you cut my hair? I want it to be short again.”

“Right now?”

“Sure, why not.”

“Alright, lemme go get a pair of scissors and a comb and a towel.”

Steve left, and Bucky settled in the desk chair. It was getting really annoying; it was almost long enough to meet his shoulders and he might as well start doing his hair like a dame if he wanted it out of his face.

“I’m not very good, but I can at least get it out of your eyes.”

“That’s fine. Honestly I’m about three seconds away from just shaving it all off entirely, so this is better.”

“You’d look terrible bald.”

“Mm, and then you wouldn’t be able to pull it anymore,” Bucky said a little blissfully. Steve swatted at his shoulder half-heartedly before putting the towel around Bucky’s neck. He let Steve concentrate and mostly stayed silent, focusing on the _snip, snip_ at the back of his neck and the strange tingle of awareness he got. Brown hair fell to the floor and it was unexpectedly really satisfying.

He liked watching Steve when he could. It didn’t explain why Steve was suddenly perched nervously above him, though.

“Steve?”

“Bucky! Thank God, are you alright?”

“Yeah?” He blinked a few times and glanced around dubiously. “Why am I on the floor?”

“Uh, I don’t—” his hands hovered in the air, like he wanted to touch Bucky. “What— what do you remember?”

Bucky sat up and realized that not only was he on the floor, he was also half-dressed. They both were. He knew Steve was a lot more panicked than he was letting on, which in turn sparked his anxiety. He wanted to rub his forehead against the migraine coming on, but didn’t want to worry Steve any more than he already had.

“You were cutting my hair,” he said, already knowing it was the wrong answer, regardless of their state of dress.

“You—” Steve started then closed his mouth and looked at his hands.

“Just tell me what happened, Steve.”

“I dunno what happened, Bucky! I had finished cutting your hair. We were on the bed… you know, foolin’ around a bit. And after we were just kissing a bunch and talking, and then I think I said something and you just… I dunno how to explain it. One second you were smiling and then _squat_.”

“Squat?”

“I dunno! It was nuts. Your eyes went all outta focus and your face went completely blank and then you started saying stuff in Russian, for whatever reason, but you wouldn’t answer me. Then you acted like you had a headache or somethin’ then rolled off the bed and started repeating your name, rank, an’ number a bunch of times for a coupl’a minutes.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of this. Steve was probably waiting for him to say this was all some sort of joke, but this would be one terrible joke. He rested his elbows on his bent knees and looked away at the wall.

“What did I say in Russian?”

“I couldn’t make sense of most of it. It sounded like you were having a conversation with somebody. You weren’t happy with them, anyway. I know at one point you said somethin’ that loosely sounded like, ‘take a baseball bat, wrap some barbed wire around it, and shove it so far up your ass you make yourself headgear.’”

Maybe at one point he’d have laughed. The migraine was building in his head, but he accepted it. He knew Steve just wanted to help, but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t think there _was_ anything to do.

“What’s going on with me?”

“I don’t know, Bucky. But we’ll figure it out.”

Steve was always so hopeful, so sure. Bucky wasn’t. He didn’t answer.

~*~

“You know, you can touch me with your arm. I really don’t mind,” Steve said one night, as they lie tangled together, Steve at Bucky’s back. His fingers ghosted over the worst of the scars.

“What?”

“You always avoid touching me with it. I really don’t mind.”

“It’s… not that I think you’d _mind_...”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t really like it,” Bucky admitted. “It’s clumsy, and heavy, and pretty much useless for small stuff. Not like a real arm.”

Steve’s fingers wandered down the metal.

“I can’t feel that. I have to concentrate all the time ’cause I can’t sense where it is unless I’m lookin’ right at it. It’s annoying.”

“So you don’t want to touch me with it because you don’t like it?”

“I… it’s more than it just being annoying.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s real strong. Like,” he reached up and grabbed Steve’s hand lightly. “I can’t tell how hard I’m gripping. But, if I wanted to, I could break all the bones in your hand real easy,” Bucky said, frowning. “I dunno how strong it is exactly, but I bet I could break a femur with it.”

Steve flexed his fingers against the metal, but made no move to extract them.

“Would you rather not have it at all?” Steve asked.

Bucky bit his lip and thought about it.

“It’s more trouble than it’s worth,” he said eventually. “I think I’d be better off without it, to be honest.”

Steve interlaced his flesh fingers with Bucky’s metal ones, moving it out of the way so he could reach over and place kisses against the scars on his back.

“I’m with ’til the end of the line, no matter what you look like,” he murmured against his skin.

It took everything Bucky had not to cry.

~*~

“We’re gonna fuckin’ get ourselves killed, you know that?” Bucky said a few nights later. He might have just been grouchy because it was so stuffy in the room and they couldn’t leave the window or door open in case they were seen, but this was a long time coming. Steve stopped what he was drawing abruptly and rounded on him.

Shit, Bucky knew that righteous, determined look.

“What, like we aren’t in the middle of a fucking war, Bucky? People are dying already — civilians! Even if _Hitler,_ ” Steve spat his name, “hasn’t officially declared war, he might as well have. They’re blaming the Jews for all of Germany’s strife and forcing them into concentration camps! You know the stories as well as I do.”

Yes, he did. This was an old conversation they rehashed all the time.

“Yeah, they’re also sticking homosexuals and cripples and anyone who disagrees with their politics in those camps as well, which, if you haven’t noticed, kind of describes us to a ‘T’.”

“Which is why we should be fighting harder!”

“I’m not going to go up against Hitler’s entire army armed with nothing but a fucking pipe dream of how people should be treated!”

“And _I’m_ not going to just sit idly by while these atrocities go on! That’s why when we get back to the States I’m going to enlist in the army.”

“You? _You’re_ going to enlist?”

“You bet I am.”

“Steve, no, you can’t. The US hasn’t even declared anything! Nobody’s declared anything!”

“They will. They have to!”

“You can’t join the war.”

“Why not?! I have just as much right to go and fight as the next guy.”

“You seem to think war is just a battle of morals, and whoever is in the right wins. Well, I’ll tell ya, you’re dead wrong. There are no morals in war. There is no _happy ending_. The war doesn’t _fucking end_ when the fat cats say it does! Even if you make it back, nothing’s the same. You leave part of yourself there and the ugly comes back with you. So shut up about it, alright?!”

He pushed off the bed and stood by the window, even if he couldn’t see outside, just so he didn’t have to look at Steve. He tried to both shove the lid back on his emotions and ignore Steve’s eyes burning the back of his skull.

“Sorry,” Bucky said after a few tense moments of silence, “for getting angry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. Nothing had been resolved and he had a feeling that it probably never would be, as they both could be stubborn pieces of shit.

“Where did you serve? I’m mean, don’t… you don’t have to talk about it. But I’m here if you do.”

Bucky was silent at first. He didn’t have to tell him everything, but he could talk a little bit. Figured he owed him that much for yelling at him. Might even make him see why him enlisting wouldn’t change anything. “Kinda all over Europe. I pretty much went wherever they needed me, until I got to the Alps. That’s where this happened.” He shrugged his left arm.

“Bucky,” Steve started, “what war did you serve in?”

Bucky turned back to glance at Steve. “The Great War,” he said. Wasn’t it obvious?

Steve was looking at him very strangely.

“The Great War,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Bucky said the same way, not sure where the confusion was coming from.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-two.”

“What’s the date?”

“June 27th, 1939.”

“When were you born?”

“March 10th, 1917.”

“When did—” he cut himself off abruptly. “Who’s president?”

“Of the US? Roosevelt. He’s runnin’ for his third term.”

Steve had this odd look in his eye and it was obvious he wasn’t telling Bucky something. They both knew this information, and knew that Bucky remembered. So what was the point? There were a lot of questions back and forth when Bucky needed to get his head straight, but his head was fine at the moment.

“How old were you when you went to war?”

“Officially? Eighteen. Unofficially? Sixteen.”

“You were fighting when you were _sixteen_?!”

“I was training when I was sixteen. I told you that I convinced them to let me stay in the barracks when my dad passed, on account of his great service and all. The Coronel said I was the best natural fighter he’d ever seen, and sent me over to serve in the British troops, even though that technically went against the neutrality act, but nobody gave two shits about that. I was fighting a year and a half before the US ever entered the war.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not a nice story.”

“I know. I’d like to hear it anyway.”

“No.”

Bucky turned back away. It hurt to look at him. All he could think about now was Steve, skinny, sickly, righteous Steve, in those trenches and it hit him like a punch to the gut. God, what if they did get caught? Would they be killed or sent to a camp? If the rumors really were true, he’d hope they’d show him some mercy and just shoot them outright. And here Steve wanted to risk it all to help people. He thought he knew the horrors, but he didn’t. He couldn’t really _know_ unless he experienced them for himself, and Bucky couldn’t stand the thought of that happening. He couldn’t lose Steve, not now.

“I still remember it, clear as day,” he found himself saying. “They say time makes stuff better, but I don’t think that’s true.”

He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“God fucking dammit,” he swore in defeat, grabbing Steve’s desk chair and turning it so they were sitting facing each other, though he couldn’t look at him. He hadn’t had to talk about it the entire fucking time he’d been out, and now this. Leave it to Steve to dredge all this shit back up.

“I was smart and shady and thought I was immortal like all the other young dumb kids, so I was sent to do a lot of stuff I’m not actually allowed to tell you about. Other times, though, I was stuck in the trenches with the rest of the soldiers. It was… well. _Hell_.”

He took a deep breath and sighed. Steve sat silent on the bed and gave Bucky his undivided attention.

“I still remember the stench. Every once in a while we’d get orders to go over top, to try to gain some ground on the enemy. They sent us over there to die. I can’t tell you how many bodies… I can’t… they’d sit there for days, weeks, in No Man’s Land. Have you ever smelt a decaying body? Multiply that by a thousand. A hundred thousand. Some days we lost thousands of men in one fell swoop. Us, them, it didn’t matter, in the end. At one point I realized I didn’t really see the people around me, all I could see were dead men walking. Ghosts.”

He could still see it so clearly, the blood mixing in with the mud and snow, the maggots infesting open wounds in the summer. The pleading cries of those still unfortunate enough to be alive in No Man’s Land with no hope of aid.

“I nearly died in those trenches. Well, fuck, take your pick of _which_ time I nearly bit the dust, between the all the fucking hellfire of bullets and bombs going off left and right, knowing what the insides of a person looked like because there were dead bodies all around you, but you had to keep going. You’d use the tanks as cover, but so many didn’t even make it out of the water from the boats.

“I saw the soldier next to me get his brain blown outta his skull because he wasn’t fast enough.” The kid, God he was barely eighteen, his body dropped next to him, empty eyes staring towards the sky. “I had to just ignore his body and fix my gun, ’cause that’s when they’d try to hit us.

“They looked like fucking devils, I swear to God, with their fucking masks on, running at us. Huge fucking weapons, nothin’ like you’d ever seen, right outta a science fiction, they kept shooting and here I was, outta bullets and I knew I was gonna die, Steve, I knew I was gonna die—”

Bucky was no longer in Steve’s bedroom, but miles away in a trench, covered in mud and guts and shit.

“Then I got sent over the top. It was only a matter of time. Pointless, it was _so fucking **pointless** ,_ but I went, ’cause I owed my dues and I’d served long enough, anyway. I’d go in because I’ll probably be dead by morning anyway.

“There were so many bodies. I can’t see, or hear anything, it’s fucking chaos, I swear. It’s just so loud and there’re so many bodies and I have to keep going, I have to make it, dodge the fucking machine guns and other bombs. I can’t focus on the bodies around me, the men going down around, me, it’s so loud and I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die this is it this is the end what a fuckin’ helluva way to die—”

—He can’t breathe, there’s too much smoke and blood in the air, screams and yells echo around him and there’s wind rushing through his ears but he’s close to being done if he could get on the train, he could make it to just to be gunned down by those waiting inside and he tries to reach out to grab on to anything, anything because he’s _falling_ —

—He looks up and Steve’s in front of him, he’s not even wearing a fucking helmet that _idiot_ and he’s saying something but then there’s an explosion and he doesn’t think, just tackles Steve to the ground because _what the fuck is he doing out here he’s supposed to be safe at home I’m supposed to be protecting him—_

“Shaddup,” he hisses, putting his hand over Steve’s mouth, “just keep quiet and keep your mouth covered, listen, I’ll get us back to camp, I’ll drag both of us along if I have to, just keep your head down, not even fuckin’ wearing your helmet, what the _fuck,_ Steve—”

—Gunfire and snow rains down and Bucky tries to cover Steve with his body but he falls and he looks and his arm’s gone, his fucking arm is _gone_ — just a bloody stump that’s gonna kill him either by bleeding him dry or with infection it didn’t even fucking matter anymore, but Steve’s here, the fuck is Steve doing here?! He has to radio Morita or Jones and get him back to base, back to a medic, he has fucking _asthma_ Jesus **fucking** Christ—

—He takes off his shirt (buttons why does his shirt have _buttons_ ) so he can wrap it around his arm, try to stem the flow of blood. He looks past Steve’s shoulder and oh God, he knew that kid, that body, half his face is blown off but he knew that kid and why, just fucking _why_ —

—Steve turns his head to look where Bucky is and no, he shouldn’t see that—

“Look at me, focus on _me_ , it’s okay Steve, it’s okay, we’ll wait until nightfall, it’s okay, I’ll radio Jones and he’ll send the others to make sure we get back home, okay?”

“Bucky, we _are_ home, we’re in my bedroom.”

—Pain beyond anything he’s ever felt and his arm’s not there anymore, the blood is soaking through his shirt and there was no way Morita can patch this one up and he’s gonna just be another body out here in this fucking valley, frozen in the snow, nobody’s gonna find him nobody’s even gonna remember him—

“Bucky, we’re in my room, not at war.”

—What was Steve even talking about, couldn’t he see the bodies, couldn’t he hear the gunfire and explosions—

“What’s the date?”

—They were out here dying in the snow and now all Steve wants to know was the fucking _date_ —

“Focus on _me_ , Bucky, just tell me the date, okay?”

—Steve brushed some of the hair out his face (when did his hair grow past regulation length?) and Bucky grits his teeth through the pain because he can’t say no to him—

“It’s, um, N-November. 1944.”

“No, Bucky, it’s not. It’s June of 1939. It’s 1939, Buck. We won the war.”

Bucky stares at him, because what the fuck.

Steve knocks on the wood floor — wood floor? He could’ve sworn that that was snowy, blood soaked dirt a second ago — and touches Bucky’s shoulder. “It is June, 1939 and we are in my bedroom and you are _safe_. Look at your arm.”

Bucky flinches because no, he doesn’t want to look, but Steve reaches down and Bucky feels the air get punched out of his lungs.

It’s metal.

That was right… the Church found him afterwards, after…

The sudden silence of Steve’s bedroom pressed down and swallowed him. He was in Steve’s bedroom, it was June, 1939, and he was alive.

_James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038…_

He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, trying to stop the vertigo. Shit. He didn’t fucking want Steve to see how fucked up he was. He was all sweaty and shaky and his body felt unbelievably heavy, the gunfire and screaming still pounding holes in his head. He tried to breathe through it, the phantom pain of his arm spiking almost unbearably.

_James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038…_

“Sorry,” he mumbled eventually.

“No, no, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have made you talk about it, I’m so sorry Bucky.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He focused on the hard wood he was laying on, feeling like he was about to sink through the floor. It was the only thing remotely real in this haze.

_James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038…_

“Is… is there anything I can do?”

He was drifting away, empty of any emotion. “No,” he said.

_James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038. James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038…_

“…Bucky?” Steve asked. He had no idea how long they have been lying on the ground.

“I think I should go,” he said mildly.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get up, but then he was putting his shirt and was standing by the window and he wasn’t entirely sure how he got there.

Steve was worried, but Bucky couldn’t express anything to combat that.

~*~

Later, as it must have been later, he was in his bed with no memory of leaving Steve’s bedroom or coming back to the Church.

He didn’t sleep, not really. Memories, visions, crept and molded together in his mind in blasts of colors and screams and pain and he couldn’t tell anymore what was a nightmare and what was actually happening to him.

He remembered how the arm was put on. His screaming. His blood. His pain.

It took him three days to work up the strength and courage to go back to Steve’s. He was just so exhausted and ashamed, but he needed Steve, if he’d still have him.

Which, Steve of course was a better man than Bucky would ever be, brushed away Bucky’s apology and let them lie together in his bed. They didn’t say much. Steve held him from behind and would play with his hair and stroke down his back, and he thought he even managed to doze off for a little bit.

Steve was the best thing that ever happened to Bucky and he didn’t deserve him one bit.

~*~ 

"Did I wake anyone up?”

“When you talked about the war?”

“Yeah.”

“No, you were… really quiet. Even when I could tell you were in pain, you just… locked it all down.” 

“Oh. Okay, well, at least I didn’t wake anyone.”

“You scared the hell outta me, Buck.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

~*~

“I didn’t want it,” Bucky said, as they lie curled together.

“Your arm?”

“I remember yelling at them to get it off me. I didn’t want it. They told me they had big plans for me.”

Steve stared at him for a moment before sitting up abruptly. “Bucky, I have to tell you something.”

Bucky furrowed his brow but sat up as well. “What is it?”

“Yeah, um,” he brushed back his bangs. “It — there’s something weird going on here, Buck.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, I don’t know how to…. When were you born?”

“March 10th, 1917.”

“Which war did you fight in?”

“Well… the Great War.”

“Bucky, look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said quickly. “But you say you fought in the Great War but, you said you were born in 1917. Bucky, that’s the year America _went to war_. How could you have fought in the war if you were just born that year? Now, on the other hand—”

Steve was on a fucking roll, he’d obviously been thinking about this a lot.

“—There was the Second World War. Did you know that? Do you remember that? Listen, there’s no way you could have fought in the first Great War, because you’d have to be at least forty, and that’s if you actually started training when you were fifteen. You died, Bucky, in the Second World War.

“But you didn’t die, obviously, ’cause here you are, plain as day. Except, if that is all true, then how do look so young? You honestly could not pass as someone older than twenty-seven. You can’t be forty. You can’t have fought and died in both Wars.”

Bucky was trying to keep up. “What’s the date?”

“What’s the date?” Steve asked back.

Bucky swallowed and looked down at his metal hand, completely overwhelmed, Steve’s words swirling around him and making too much sense and no sense at all.

“What—” he choked out. He clears his throat and tried again. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know, Bucky. I wish to God I knew, but I just don’t know.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> Bucky confuses WWI and WWII when he talks about it. No Man's Land was more in WWI, using the tanks and boats was WWII, and Roosevelt was running for his third term in 1944.
> 
> i'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


	4. Chapter 4

Coming back from the war was rough. In some ways, it was worse than being in the actual war. There was something about coming home, because the war never truly seemed to end, especially now, when the world was gearing up for battle again. The days were long and endless in their monotony, which—

He blinked. What was Steve doing here?

No, seriously. What the _fuck_ was _Steve_ doing here?!

Here. In the Church. What. The **fuck.** Was _Steve_ doing _here_. In the **_Church_**.

Thankfully nobody was paying much attention and Steve hadn’t noticed him yet as he barreled on with one goddamn purpose which was _goddammit Steve what the fuck are you doing here what the fuck possessed you to come here what the fuck what the FUCK—_

He yanked Steve from behind with a hand over his mouth and because there was no where else to go, shoved him into a Confessional and followed in after him, even if it was a bit of a tight fit.

“ _What the fuck are you doing_?!” he hissed.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

“Who the fuck else would it be?! I swear to fucking God Steve you have ten seconds to explain what exactly the fuck you think you’re doing here before I do us both a favor and—”

He paused as he heard footsteps approaching and continued on as they echoed away.

“—And punch you in the fucking head. Not that that would knock any fucking sense into it, because fucking hell we both know that doesn’t _work_ —”

“You’ve been gone for almost a week! What else was I supposed to do?”

“I just saw you last night!”

“No, Bucky, you didn’t.”

Bucky opened his mouth argue and snapped it back shut. Fucking hell, his memory must have fucked up again. The anger left him as soon it had appeared, but it didn’t quell the panic.

“You have to leave. Immediately.” 

“No, not without you.”

“Steve, you _have_ to.”

Steve crossed his arms and set his jaw and Bucky knew that fucking stubborn look all too fucking well. He ran his hand over his face and let out a huff of breath.

“Please, Steve, I’m beggin’ you.”

“I want to know what’s going on here. Look, you can’t try to tell me that there’s nothing fishy going on here when you’re so scared of me even stepping foot in this place. _They’re_ the ones who found you, _they’re_ the ones who put that damn arm on you — against your will! — _and_ they’re the ones who you’re with whenever you lose your memory! I bet they’re the ones messing with it in the first place! You’re my friend, Buck, and I hate that you’re here. I couldn’t just sit and wait around just to find out that you don’t remember me again. I had to come.”

Bucky rested his head against the wood of the confessional. Of course Steve would come looking for him. It was exactly what Bucky would do for him.

“What do you want to do?

“I want us to leave here, together. To go back home to Brooklyn. I want you to be as far away from this Church as possible.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Steve. Really.” _I’ll follow you wherever you go._ “You’re right. Fuck this place. Let’s get out of here.”

“Okay, then,” he said, surprised. He made to move, but Bucky pressed a hand to his chest as they heard someone approach. He felt Steve’s heart rate speed up as the footsteps neared the confessional, and they looked at each other in mutual panic as they stopped just outside. Bucky jumped out smoothly before they could enter, hoping Steve would have enough sense to stay inside.

It was another member of the Church, and Bucky worked to appear solemn. He just wanted to reach revelation, to pray and receive the good Word. No, he was just by himself, he wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone, yes, he knew the world was dangerous and he needed to be careful. Of course, of course, of course.

The man _finally_ left him. Bucky waited with an air of complete patience against the pounding of his heart until the member was out of sight and wrenched the door open.

“We need to leave. Now.”

“No.”

Bucky puffed up, exacerbated, but Steve cut him off.

“I want to see what’s going on. I know you, Buck. They’re doing something to you, and I wanna get to the bottom of it. Don’t you?”

 _No,_ was Bucky’s immediate reaction. He was perfectly fine with just getting the fuck out of there and never coming back. He didn’t need to know, didn’t _want_ to know. But he also didn’t have time to sit here and argue with Steve. “Okay, fine, but not — not right now. If you really want to poke around here, we gotta plan this out, okay? This place is gonna be flooded with members of the Church soon.” He raised his head and looked around. He really needed to get Steve the fuck out of here.

Steve gave him a long, piercing look. “Alright, fine, we need a plan,” he finally conceded. “We’ll come back later.”

“Now will ya come with me already?”

Bucky tried his hardest not to just grab Steve and bolt out of the Church. He promised Steve that they could come back later to poke around, but he’d be able to find some way out of it. It would be fine. Steve would stay away from the Church (Bucky would fucking knock him unconscious and drag him out if he had to) and then they would leave and go back to Brooklyn and everything would be fine.

Sneaking around was harder with Steve in tow, but he’d had enough practice to make it work regardless. He got Steve out, promised to see him that night, swallowed the lump in his throat, and he was fine. Everything was going to be fine.

Sure, Bucky was technically dead, but they’d figure it out. Everything would be fine.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's the shortest so whoops

Coming back from the war was rough. In some ways, it was worse than being in the actual war. There was something about coming home, because the war never truly seemed to end, especially now, when the world was gearing up for battle again. The days were long and endless in their monotony, which—

He blinked. What was Steve doing here?

No, seriously. What the _fuck_ was _Steve_ doing here?!

Here. In the Church. What. The **fuck.** Was _Steve_ doing _here_. In the **_Church_**.

Thankfully nobody was paying much attention and Steve hadn’t noticed him yet as he barreled on with one goddamn purpose which was _goddammit Steve what the fuck are you doing here what the fuck possessed you to come here what the fuck what the FUCK—_

He yanked Steve from behind with a hand over his mouth and because there was no where else to go, shoved him into a Confessional and followed in after him, even if it was a bit of a tight fit.

“ _What the fuck are you doing?!_ ” he hissed.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

“Who the fuck else would it be?! I swear to fucking God Steve you have ten seconds to explain what exactly the fuck you think you’re doing here before I do us both a favor and—”

He paused as he heard footsteps approaching and continued on as they echoed away.

“—And punch you in the fucking head. Not that that would knock any fucking sense into it, because fucking hell we both know that doesn’t _work_ —”

“You didn’t come and visit me like you promised! What else was I supposed to do?”

“I just saw you last night!”

“No, Bucky, you didn’t.”

Bucky opened his mouth argue and snapped it back shut. Fucking hell, his memory must have fucked up again. The anger left him as soon it had appeared, but it didn’t quell the panic. 

“You have to leave. Immediately.”

“No, not without you!”

“Steve, you _have_ to.”

“You said that to me, once. That you wouldn’t leave without me. Do you remember that?”

“No, Steve, I—” (the smell of burning gas and smoke in the air) “Listen, I don’t, you just have to leave.”

“You said that to me too! You said it would be fine, that we’d come back and look into the Church, but you never came back. So, no Bucky, I am not leaving without you. We’re gonna go look into the Church, and then we’re gonna get out of here — out of Russia. We’re gonna go _home._ ”

He sighed and rubbed his face. What was he supposed to say to that? “Just — goddammit Steve, _fine._ But only for a few minutes, we don’t have much time before the rest of the members leave their meetings.”

As Steve made to get out of the confessional, Bucky raised his hand.

“But on _one_ condition: you fucking listen to me, which means we leave when I say we do and you don’t argue.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, but acquiesced and nodded. Apparently they could compromise, sometimes.

Bucky led the way, but he didn’t really know what to look for. Figured probably downstairs where the offices of the members were, but they’d have to be careful. Steve stayed behind him, their footsteps loud in the dead silence of the Church. Where was everybody?

He tried to remember the names and faces of the people here. Some faces came to mind, but what were their names? Their backgrounds? Did Bucky ever actually do any worshipping here? And if this were a Church, shouldn’t there be more religious stuff around? But here they walked, through barren and chilly hallways, not a soul to be found. Not even a Jesus on a Crucifix to help lead their way

Steve followed Bucky (that was wrong, Bucky should be on Steve’s six, he should be guarding those broad shoulders with that target on his back) down the corridors, passing several doors. Steve didn’t have to say anything, but he could tell what he was thinking, wondering why they didn’t open any of the doors. Well, they weren’t the right one.

They stopped eventually at the right door. Bucky knew it was the right door because one look and he wanted to puke; he didn’t want to see what was behind that door. It was _wrong_ and _bad_ and this was a terrible, _terrible_ idea, he couldn’t, he didn’t want Steve to see, _he_ didn’t want to see, to be any part of that—

“C’mon, Bucky. You know this is wrong.”

—The breath got punched out of him and suddenly he was aware of all the _pain_ coursing through him, seizing up his insides and his _arm_ and God, he just wanted to die someone just fucking _kill him already_ —

He raised one trembling hand up to open the door and his whole body felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out. His feet were frozen to the ground and he couldn’t run, he couldn’t escape, there wasn’t even a handle. But he went to push, because he had to see, he had to get out of here if he could only just see what was behind the door he could

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


	6. Chapter 6

He knocked incessantly against the window, knowing full well that is was possible his aunt and uncle might hear, but he didn’t have time to care at this point. “Steve, Steve, c’mon Steve, open up, open up, _open up_.”

Steve finally flung open the window. “Bucky?! What are you doing? My family’s still awake!" he protested even as he stood aside to let him through.

“No time. We have to go. _Now._ ”

“What are you talking about? Bucky?”

Bucky grabbed Steve’s bag and threw it at him. “Pack light. We have to move fast and we don’t have much time.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s no time!"

“Bucky! You look like you’re about to pass out, tell me what the hell is going on!”

Bucky paused from where he was uselessly fretting around the room and ran his fingers through his hair. “Hitler’s gonna invade Poland. I heard them talking about it.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“If we don’t leave now, leave tonight, we’re not going to be _able_ to leave.” Bucky felt the air get punched out of his lungs as he remembered what _exactly_ he’d overheard — they thought he was still unconscious from whatever they were doing to him, and what they said, what he _heard_ —

“Somehow they — know about us. Not about ‘ _us’_ ,” he said and gestured vaguely between them, “but that we’re friends and they don’t…”

He grimaced and looked helplessly at Steve who clenched his jaw.

“Okay. Okay, we need to go, but Buck, what about my family? Are they gonna come after them too?”

“They’re not after them,” he said, but he didn’t know that for sure.

“You can’t know that for sure,” Steve said. “What if they think they’re hiding us and they kill them? Or worse? Bucky, they can’t be put in a camp because of me.”

“They’re upstanding citizens who aren’t Jews and don’t even have Jewish connections. They got nothin’ against them, they’ll be fine.”

“What if… Bucky, what if you go downstairs and knock, act like you’re here to take me out for a drink? That way if Hydra does come, they’ll say I went with another real nice American fella named Barnes and they should expect me back. Then they’ll know that we left and my family had nothing to do with it. I can leave them a note explaining—”

“No note. They can’t know. You don’t want to burden them with that.”

“Better than thinking I was dead!”

“You can’t leave a note!”

“Bucky, I’m not—”

“It’s either they think you’re dead or they get the information you left them with tortured out of them.”

That shut Steve up real quick.

“We’re enemies of the state now. They won’t treat us nicely, or anyone they think might be helping us.”

He walked back to the window. “I’ll go lay the charm on your Ma. Pack.”

He jumped out the window and landed hard his feet, not bothering with finesse. He hated being so harsh, but it had to be done. He’d make it up to him by getting them out of this alive.

He forced himself to be calm as he knocked on the door and thought he made his smile look genuine enough when Steve’s Ma opened the door.

“Hey Mrs. Rogers!”

“Bucky! Come on in, please. Steve is just upstairs.”

He hoped to God he got through to Steve about not leaving a goddamn note, because Sarah Rogers lied just as well as her son did, which was to say, not well at all.

“That’s alright, I’ll wait. How’ve you been?”

“Oh! You know me, same ol’ same ol’. Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks, I was planning to get a few drinks with Steve.”

“Yes, of course, lemme just go tell your other half that you’re here. Go on and have a seat, darling.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking off his cap and settling down on the davenport and watched as she climbed the stairs. _Hurry it up, Steve, it’s not like you have much to pack anyway._

After a moment she came back downstairs. She really was a lovely woman, from what Steve had told him.

“He should be down soon. You sure you wouldn’t like a snack before you go?”

He smiled back. “No, no, really, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Are you going to try to teach Steve to dance again?”

“I know most would say it’s hopeless, but I’m sure there’s some gal that don’t mind getting her feet stepped on once in a while.”

She laughed. “Have you ever considered that the best place for him to meet a nice girl isn’t the dance hall?”

“Never even crossed my mind, ma’am. I think he just needs to loosen up. He’s too stiff.”

“Well, he surely didn’t get that from me.”

“I bet if you came with us all the fellas would be trippin’ over themselves wantin’ to buy you a drink.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her grin. “C’mon Bucky, stop that.”

“It always boggles my mind how no one has tried to make you his wife.”

“You think they haven’t?”

“You’re right, it’s all Steve’s fault. He scares them all off.” 

She laughed.

“I do not,” Steve said coming down the stairs. “None of them are good enough for her, is all.”

“Sure pal,” Bucky said, standing up. “C’mon, we better get going before all the good songs are over.”

“Yeah, I just…” Steve went over and hugged his Ma a little too hard and long to just be a standard goodbye. “I’ll see you later.”

“Of course,” she said and kissed his cheek. They walked over to Bucky, who was waiting by the door. “You come over for supper soon, alright? And don’t keep Steve out too late,” she said, and kissed Bucky on the cheek too.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon,” he said, and the lie tasted like ash in his mouth.

Steve and him hurried down the road without trying to look like they were running away. Steve looked back at the house when he heard the door shut, then set his jaw and continued on. Bucky sincerely hoped that this would work and the Nazis and the Church would leave Steve’s family alone, but they couldn’t know.

Things were about to go completely to Hell. He’d just hoped he’d be able to get Steve across the ocean before they did.

~*~

It turned out that would be able to get Steve out, but not go with him.

They needed a ride across the border. They had stolen a car (Steve had been against it before Bucky told him it belonged to a Church member and then Steve even suggested they set it on fire once they ditched it) and made it most of the way towards the Netherlands. After that they planned their way to get to Britain and make their way back to the States, but well. Looked like they’d have to separate.

Or really, Hitler had invaded Poland and there were Nazis hot on their trail and if they didn’t leave that night, they wouldn’t make it out.

But there were only five spaces available in the ride that Bucky had found to get them across the border, and another family of four with two small children had showed up.

As Steve turned toward Bucky, he knew exactly what was about to happen: Steve was going to let the family go in, it would be fine, they would find another way across the border, c’mon Buck, let’s go try somewhere else. And if Bucky tried to suggest that Steve take the spot he’d raise his eyebrows and say something like ‘well why don’t you? What? You’re not going to leave without me? Then you know my answer too, pal’.

They didn’t have time to argue. Steve didn’t realize how in danger he was at the moment, and as much as Bucky hated to admit it, he was better off traveling on his own if it was sneaking around. It was the obvious choice for Bucky to stay and find another way out. Hell, he had already come up with about three half-baked plans to get through the border if this plan fell through. It would be fine. This man would smuggle Steve out along with this family and Bucky would probably only be a week, maybe, at most behind him and they’d find each other back in Brooklyn. It would be fine.

So as Steve turned to him and opened his mouth to say something like, ‘it’s fine, let’s find another way around,’ Bucky cut him off.

“I’m sorry,” he said before knocking Steve out. He at least managed to catch him before he hit the ground.

“< That was pretty cruel, >” the driver said. The mother had covered her mouth and tried to quiet her toddler.

“< What? >” Bucky asked, lifting Steve up off the ground. “< No, you’re taking him — here’s the money for his trip. I’ll find another way out. Although he’s going to be pissed when he wakes up. Sorry. >”

Bucky carefully placed Steve into the car and got his sketchbook to write him a quick note, _“I’m right behind you. Meet you at home.”_ He shoved the sketchbook and the bag back with Steve, and then helped the family into the car, apologizing for himself. Seriously though, they hadn’t had time to argue about who was going and they wouldn’t be able to find another way out, Steve just didn’t realize how _close_ the Nazis were on their trail. Bucky wasn’t allowed to leave. His debt hadn’t been repaid. His debt was never going to be repaid.

As he watched the car fade into the night, he just hoped that Steve didn’t hate him too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has no idea what's going on ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm agentsnowycarter on tumblr!!


End file.
